


This is Every Night

by aster_risk



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Post-Episode: s04e13 Never Again, Smut, X-Files OctoberFicFest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aster_risk/pseuds/aster_risk
Summary: "Make love to me, Mulder."She’s staring at him. She’s waiting. She’s dying, whispers a voice in his head, and he shoves it away because it’s irrelevant. He would’ve made love to her the day he met her.On the television, Patrick Swayze shouts "ditto" into the void.





	This is Every Night

“The Bible isn’t meant to be taken literally.”

“Are you asking my opinion?”

A pained silence. “Yeah, I guess.” She plays with a loose thread on her sleeve.

“You know I don’t believe in God.”

“But if you did.”

“Well, in that case I would say of course the Bible isn’t meant to be taken literally. It’s just a series of fables, many of them wildly outdated, that provide people with hope and a defined moral code.” He wraps his arm around her shoulder and pauses the movie. They’ve rented “Ghost.” It’s too close for comfort.

“You’re right.”

“Asking the tough questions, Scully?”

She sighs through her nose, graces him with the tiniest smile. “I just… wanted a second opinion.”

“You’re not usually one to ask for a second opinion. You sound like the guy who re-finds God in his retirement.”

Scully snorts cynically, and it’s adorable. And he feels so guilty for thinking that; he can tell she’s hurting, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it. Her hair is messy from the blanket, her face peeks out from a stack of pillows and quilts. It is every Friday night they’ve ever curled up here after a case. It is every night she’s leaned into his shoulder and fallen asleep before the movie ends. It is every night she looks up at him with one eyebrow arched like she’s absolutely done with his shit, but tonight her eyes are glassy as marbles.

“I was thinking about how people on their deathbeds have all these transgressions to confess, just in case. They have so many regrets, Mulder,” she says haggardly. “I don’t want to die thinking of seedy bars and Ed Jerse. I don’t want to die like those men who call a priest as their bodies fail them and think of every mistake they’ve ever made.”

Suddenly, he’s aware of her sweater against this shoulder, her hair tickling his neck and her nose pressed to his chest. This is every night. And he’s so tempted to tell her she isn’t dying, lean into her petite form and reassure her this will be a Friday evening two years from now. And they will watch “Ghost” and laugh when Oda Mae hears the dead.

He can’t though. So he asks her, “what do you want?”

“Make love to me Mulder.”

He’s not expecting that. (Maybe he is but doesn’t dare believe.)

She’s staring at him. She’s waiting. _She’s dying,_  whispers a voice in his head, and he shoves it away because it’s irrelevant. He would’ve made love to her the day he met her.

“Yes,” he says shakily. “But, Scully, I have to know—is this just because you’re… you know…”

“Terminal?” she says bluntly. She didn’t used to bring it up; he wonders what changed.

He can’t think of any better way to say it. “Yeah.”

“No. Of course not. I slept with  _Ed_  because I was terminal. You…” she drifts. Patrick Swayze shouts “ditto” into the void.

“Mulder,” she says at last, drawing a ragged breath, “I’ve wanted this for a long time. There’s no reason to hesitate now; I won’t be around long enough to suffer the consequences of calling my colleague my lover.”

Lover. He turns the word over on his tongue. He marvels at the sound of it.

“C’mere, Scully,” he murmurs gruffly, cupping her cheek and kissing her for all he’s worth. She clings to his shoulders, one hand wrapped around his neck and the other tugging his shirt collar. She hums into his lips, and he knows he’s already straining against his jeans. What are they, seventeen?

But she tugs his shirt over his head, and pulls away from the kiss to toss aside her own shirt—which, coincidentally, also belongs to him—and before he knows it her fingers are in his hair and he’s exploring the wonders of his partner’s bare breasts. They are ever bit as perfect as he imagined, those nights tossing and turning in seedy motels in the midst of some sordid sub-conscious fantasy. Better, actually, because they are beautiful and tangible and not a figment of his imagination.

Scully makes quick work of his jeans and quicker work of her panties; she’s not looking for a quick fuck, nor is she about to drag things out. After all, she's Scully. That's every day.

He tries too hard to be careful inside her, but she’s whimpering and her lips are pressed in a tight smile. And she’s breathing, “faster” into his ear, and he can feel the heat in her cheeks. He does as she asks; she rides him into his abused couch cushions until he feels the backboard on his spine.

He doesn’t take his eyes off her. She had said, “make love to me,” and that he does. He kisses her jaw, nips at her neck, allows himself to hold her first by the hips, then around her waist. Her neck arches; she sighs. He thrusts harder, supports her tiny frame in callused hands and does his best to hold out until she has finished.

He barely makes it.

She calls out when she comes, and it’s not a familiar sound. It’s not the cracked, ‘fuck me into oblivion’ silence he dreamed of or the drawn out sigh she utters falling asleep in his queen-sized bed. It’s a vulnerable, contented noise he wonders if he’ll ever hear again.

That is what pushes him over the brink, and he shudders inside her. She is tight, trembling, holding on to him like he’s the edge of space. He sees galaxies in her eyes.

When she relaxes, he pulls out and wraps around her. She settles into his arms and closes her eyes, and he cannot tell if she’s asleep. He pulls the blanket over her and stretches his feet out on the coffee table, leaning into the cushion. He’ll carry her to bed in a few minutes, like he does every night.

On the TV, Sam Wheat steps into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this hurt your heart to read as much as it hurt mine to write.


End file.
